Chapter Text
Ranboo feels like he might throw up.
He shouldn’t. It’s illogical to feel that way, when he was doing so well only ten minutes ago with Tubbo in the passenger seat, when he was doing… fine in the mall earlier, too, when he’s been down this same highway so many times. Even if the destination is different, at least he knows the destination enough to not question it-- there’s no uncertainty here. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
It feels like he’s never going to breathe correctly again.
Every breath is shallow. The GPS is on with the cold automated voice guiding him, and the cars with bright headlights beside him are like flares against the sunset. The windows are shut, but it’s still too loud, and he can’t find a stoplight to try and turn the music on. His phone is shut with low battery in the passenger seat, and his hands are white underneath the gloves and shaking, and he’s not sure this highway ever ends.
Oh God, this highway never ends.
He’s going to have to crash. He’s going to have to crash to end the highway, because it’s not stopping. It’s never going to stop, not until he stops first. He can’t breathe. He has to crash.
Thousands of people on the same highway. Stuck. He’s the only one moving. He’s the only one stuck. Everything is stuck in place and bright and loud and he can’t hear above the ringing in his ears and he’s going to die here he’s going to die die die die die
He can’t die yet. There’s too much he has left to do. He needs another year, at least, to do everything.
How old is he? How much time does he have left? There’s a birthday on the certificates, but is it right? It has to be right, nobody would lie to him, but they all said that this highway ends but it never does, it never does, he’s stuck, oh God, he’s stuck, how is Niki going to know, Techno, Tubbo?
Tubbo. He wants Tubbo here.
Tubbo’s the only one who won’t expect him to crash.
He can imagine what the headlines would say. What the people would say. Everyone would expect it. Everyone knows he’s going to crash. Everyone thinks he’s crazy. Even Niki, even Techno, they’ve never said it but they know. You never let a sick person drive. You never let a sick and dying person drive. You never let a sick and dying and psychotic and insane and sick and afraid and forgetful and you never let a child drive. Everyone knows he’s going to crash. He has to. He has to.
Tubbo’s the only one who won’t expect him to crash.
“In a quarter of a mile, turn left,” the GPS tells Ranboo.
“Okay,” he replies, breathlessly.
Left. Left. Left. Which is his left?
Is it the side of his face that’s ruined? Is it the side of his face that’s unnatural? Brown or green? Brown or green? Brown or green? Is it the face that’s ruined? Is it the face that’s unnatural? Both sides. Both sides are. Both sides are ruined. Both sides are unnatural.
He turns left.
He can’t look in the rearview mirror.
Time until he reaches his destination: 5 minutes.
He’s off the highway.
He’s alive.
His fingers feel numb. It’s not winter, is it? It’s not. It’s not winter.
He misses winter. He used to love it. He can’t remember when, though. Just that he knows someone loves it. Not Niki, she likes spring. Not Techno, he likes everything that isn’t spring. Not Tubbo, he. What does Tubbo like?
Space. Animals. Games. Movies. Science.
Ranboo.
They’re friends, aren’t they?
“Your destination is on the right,” the GPS tells Ranboo.
“Okay,” he replies, breathlessly.
He pulls into the location. It’s a parking lot for a supermarket. There’s a gas station near it, too, and nobody seems to be there. More likely, though, he’s going to want Ranboo to pull up in the back.
Why did he tell him to come here? Why?
Maybe it’s convenient. Ranboo thinks he needs to probably go shopping soon anyway, after all. That’s probably why he feels so sick to his stomach.
Ranboo parks in a random spot and opens up his door. The windy air, chilly and fresh, both startles him and calms him. His chest hurts, he notices, and he feels a little dizzy; he must have not been breathing much. He’s breathing now, though, at least. That’s good.
He shakes his hand out before going to the other side of the car and pulling out his phone. He checks it once, just to confirm the address, before typing up a message and clicking send before he can overthink it.
Ranboo: I’m here
After a minute, he gets a reply. He goes ahead and locks his car before glancing behind him, just in case, and walking towards the store.
Dream: Just come to the back of the store or something. I can come out and get you if you want
Ranboo: It’s fine don’t worry about it
Dream: K
When he gets to the back of the store, where delivery trucks come and cars recklessly drive through with no distinct lane markings, he sees his boss leaning against the side of the store. His blonde hair is shadowed by the tall building and Ranboo can’t make out the words on his shirt, but he does make out the grin on his face, illuminated by his bright green eyes.
It’s almost inhuman.
Ranboo gives a small wave, and Dream gets up to walk over.
“Sorry that I changed the location on you,” he says casually. He digs his hand in his pocket to pull out two twenty dollar bills, and Ranboo takes a step back. Dream doesn’t notice and continues on, voice neutral as ever. “I was just going to go shopping here, anyway, and figured I may as well do this after. Here you go, by the way.”
“Oh, I, uh.” Ranboo takes a deep breath. “I didn’t really. Take any photos, or anything. So, um. You don’t have to give me anything, really, I- I’m sorry.” His hands are still shaking at his sides. He knows the other knows that.
Dream laughs and thrusts the money further even more. “It’s fine, I promise. You’re doing good work, you know. You are.”
Even though it makes him feel sick, he takes the money with a whispered, “Thank you,” and puts it in his phone case. He’s taller than the other, but something about the lighting makes him feel so much smaller. “I, um. Thank you. A lot.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Dream leans against the wall again and gives Ranboo a non-judgemental look that feels like he’s tearing into his skin. “How’s it coming along, then?”
“Fine,” Ranboo whispers. The other gestures for him to elaborate, so he hurriedly adds, a little louder, “Uh. I don’t… I think that my, uh. Independent study block in school, it’s at the end of the day, sometimes, uh- I think I can leave campus then. And, uh, I can look around the school and things, and I can, uh. I have a slip signed saying I can drive myself home, so long as I’m still doing my work, which- which I am.”
“This is your work,” Dream affirms.
“Yeah.”
Dream hums. “That’s good, then. Bakery job still going okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Have you gotten any kind of raise from it yet?” He asks. “Because from what I’ve heard and seen, it just seems like Niki is. Which is fine, I don’t have any problems with Niki, it’s just… you know. Seems unfair to the more hard-working employees, like you.”
Niki’s more hard-working than me, he wants to say, but he bites back the comment. Dream always backtracks when Ranboo timidly points out that Niki is hard-working or his school counselors aren’t ableist to him or his classmates don’t hate him, insisting that it’s not what he meant and Ranboo’s interpreting it wrong. Ranboo probably is.
He just feels a little… wrong, talking badly about Niki.
But Dream isn’t talking badly about Niki, is he? Or Ranboo’s classmates. Or Ranboo’s school counselors.
He’s just being honest.
And he’s the only one who’s ever seemed to really care enough to check in. Or, no, the only person who has time, because Ranboo’s certain Niki would if she could, but- but she can’t. And she doesn’t. But Dream always does.
Ranboo averts his eyes. “Uh. No, not yet.”
“Damn.” Dream huffs. “Well, you’ve always got me if you ever decide to quit or something. I know that you like working at it, but there are better places in town that pay higher. You’re a good kid, so I’m sure people can overlook the brain problems once they see your GPA.”
“I hope so.”
Ranboo doesn’t know what else to say to that.
“I mean, that’s never stopped this, right?” Dream points out. He pulls out something from his pocket, and Ranboo’s heart skips a beat when he realizes it’s a photo that he took. He can’t tell if it’s happiness that Dream kept it, or discomfort at the association it has. It had been a dead end, but, “Look. You could take this photo, memory loss or not. Anxiety or not, though it did make the aim a little shaky, honestly. It’s still a good photo, though, that nobody would look at this and go ‘oh, shit, the guy who took this was psychotic’, you know? So you’re good. Closer to the ideal employee than the psych ward patient, yeah?”
His chest feels a little tight. “Yeah. Thank you, I’ll, uh, think about that.”
“Good.” Dream puts the photograph away. “Just keep working on the photos, okay? You’re doing a good thing with this. You’re protecting so many people.”
Ranboo nods, letting out a shaky breath. Dream’s right. He is. He’s helping people by warning them, by doing the research for them, by putting himself at risk so that they’ll be safe. He’s protecting them. And Dream’s helping him protect them, so the two of them are almost heroes. Or martyrs. Less-corrupt police. Vigilantes.
Ranboo hasn’t had to break a law, yet. And it’s not like he’s overwhelmingly cool or strong. Though Dream might be, which is half the equation that makes up for Ranboo’s incompetence. His problems.
He’s not saving anyone. He’s just trying to help. And help himself in the process, too.
“I’ll take more photos tonight,” he promises.
Dream smiles. “Get some sleep, too. It’s only Saturday, but I know you’ve got work tomorrow. Take it easy, alright?”
“Okay.”
“Thanks for showing up. Really. It’s good to see you.” Dream straightens up, and points his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the parking lot. “I should head home now. Work conference tomorrow. See you.”
“See you,” Ranboo echoes.
He waits for Dream to leave, allotting him five minutes to get out of the parking lot, before he leaves the back area of the store. He keeps to the wall, even though it’s dark, because he’s not dressed in bright enough clothes for any incoming cars to avoid him, and he can’t die today. He’s not going to.
He pauses when he gets to his car, taking a look back at the supermarket. He needs to do something here. He knows he does.
But there’s something else to do, too.
So he settles in the car, pulls out of the parking lot, and aims for the highway again. There’s probably somewhere he can pull over to the side, he notes as he starts driving, mind a lot clearer now that he has a more concrete purpose. He’ll pull over there and get out his camera from the backseat, take a few photos, and drive home. It’ll be fine.
(It’s halfway through the drive when his stomach hurts, and he remembers he needs groceries.
There’s no way he’s going to U-turn here, though. It’ll be fine.
He’ll get them after work tomorrow.)
--
Ranboo parks on the side of the road, tires barely avoiding hitting the grass, and he cautiously exits his car.
He’s hoping that nobody parks beside him to check on him. It would be kind of them, and it would make sense, because it’s late at night and most seventeen year olds don’t park on the side of the highway with nobody else in the vehicle, but it would take a lot to explain that no, he’s just taking photos, he’s really fine, thank you. It’s not a criminal offense, he doesn’t think, considering that he had all the proper indicators on and everything, but he’s still worried about being arrested for violating some law he was never told existed.
Ranboo’s considered, in the past, that someone’s after him. He never really thinks farther than that.
It keeps him up at night, regardless, on the days where it feels so much more plausible.
Trying to take photos in the dark is difficult. Ranboo has to spend a few minutes just adjusting the filters themselves, constantly distracted by the deafening sounds of cars rushing past him while nocturnal birds call out in the shadows. His heart races a little faster than it should, but it’s not at panic attack levels, so he bites his lip and focuses on getting the camera just right before he lets out a sigh of relief.
Okay. A few photos, then he’s good. Just a few.
He takes one of the sky, first of all, and the cars in front of the horizon. It’ll work better for school, since his independent study photography project doesn’t entirely overlap with what Dream typically asks him to do, and he’ll need a few aesthetic photos for a good grade. After that, he takes another of the trees lining one side of the road for similar purposes, before he takes a breath, pulls himself together, and starts walking.
There are gravestones on the side of highways, sometimes. Ranboo has yet to take a photo of any-- it feels too personal, too impeding, and the last thing Ranboo wants is to get haunted by an old dead man in his hometown. But, for the purposes of what he’s doing, it’s worth investigating it for the very same reason he’s wary of it-- it could be haunted.
Ranboo isn’t the strongest believer in ghosts. He’d say that Dream isn’t a believer in them at all. But, considering these photographs are to capture different parts of town and note what seems off or even dangerous, it’s an important lead to consider.
He’s been considering all of this for a long time. Ever since he could be conscious of it, though he’s certain he did it before then and he’s certain he did it more after meeting Dream. Something about Ranboo’s mind, and his lack of memories, and the nightmares he has, in conjunction with the stories of crimes and haunted places around his neighborhood-- it has to connect to something. And Ranboo’s been desperately pulling at strings, taking photos and theorizing with Dream, to figure out exactly what it is.
Soon, when he’s done with high school, he’s even going to go to more remote areas off of here. See if the mines a couple towns away have something to do with it; he’s read a lot of horror stories about those. Maybe it’s the city an hour away doing it. Maybe it’s even the local college, and he’s asked Techno a lot of questions about it, but there must be something that his tutor is missing that maybe he could find.
He’s never told anybody about this. Nobody except Dream. He knows that people would think he’s crazy for it-- and he probably is. He’s never seen a therapist, not that he can remember, but behavior like this has been on record, apparently, according to his primary care doctor that he rarely sees. A list of psychiatric symptoms he’s only ever heard of fleetingly, and never saw again.
He’s forgotten most of them. But he didn’t forget hearing them say the word psychosis interspersed with a lot of other terminology he didn’t understand. He didn’t forget clinging to that one word, researching it later and thinking oh. Oh, God.
Dream won’t let him forget. That’s part of it.
It’s also written down dozens of times. When he’s convinced that he’s made it all up, and that it isn’t true and it’s just his mind playing tricks on him, he sorts through his notebook until he finds the first line of the entry, lacking a date but he knows was minutes after closing out of an incognito tab.
There’s something wrong with me.
And he remembers that there is.
Ranboo locates a headstone eventually, though it’s a long walk away from the car. Not too long-- it’s only been ten minutes, really-- but he should hurry back as soon as he gets the image. He would rather not be stranded out here, actually.
He takes the photo, though it’s risky trying to get a good angle with the cars rushing only a foot away from him. He ends up capturing one, nearly risking the intactness of his left foot to do so, before immediately running away from the street and making his way back to his car.
It’s still there.
He puts the camera in the back and slides into the driver’s seat, waiting another two minutes before he can figure out an appropriate place to merge back to the main street and not infuriate every driver currently on the highway. In that time, he gets a CD playing-- the second one, the one he didn’t play for Tubbo because it was bordering on too melancholic at the time, or always-- and he stays silent as the GPS dictates his way home atop the same old songs of heartbreak.
By the time he’s home, there are tears down his face, and he can’t tell which song triggered the emotional memory in him that did it. He knows he never really will.
He turns off the car and gets out, unlocking the door to his place and walking straight past the kitchen. Springerle is already asleep in his bed, and even though there’s work he still has left to do, all he does is leave the camera on his desk, scribble down a page of description in his notebook, and fall asleep.
Ranboo wakes up three times in the night to his chest pounding, Springerle having relocated to sleep atop him and his room completely obscured in darkness. He can’t remember his nightmares, nor does he have the energy to check if something external to his body is continuously waking him up. A few times, he thinks to check to see if someone is attempting to break in, but his fear is too paralyzing for him to work up the courage. This is how he dies, it must be.
He’s exhausted when the morning comes.
If Niki notices the way he stumbles into the bakery with red eyes, she doesn’t ask.
--
Ranboo’s just entered the classroom and sat his stuff down at his desk when Tubbo immediately turns to him and throws something at him.
He scrambles to catch it, about ready to tell Tubbo off for constantly giving him heart attacks, because Jesus, Tubbo really overestimates how good his reflexes are. He stares down at the object in his hands, mouth open to retort, before the words in his throat die.
Oh.
From beside him, Tubbo cheerfully says, “I made you another paper crane! This one is better and definitely not my eighth attempt at it, don’t let Tommy tell you otherwise. I mean, he can’t, ‘cause he’s in the other class. He’s such a dick. But still.”
Ranboo nods absentmindedly, staring down at the crane.
Admittedly, he can tell that it took a lot of attempts from Tubbo, and he can also notice that objectively, it still does not look much like a crane. It’s very lopsided and faintly crushed, so it’s not like it can sit up on anything, but it at least has the wings right. Upon looking closer, he realizes that Tubbo squiggled a little eye on either side of the crane’s face, and For Ranboo is written on the side with bad handwriting.
Maybe at an earlier point in his life, Ranboo would wonder how he reached a point that he’s on the verge of tears over someone giving him a paper crane. Now is not that time, though, because he is on the verge of tears and his chest feels unreasonably warm and he has no idea what to say.
And Tubbo, the oblivious idiot, quietly asks, “Do you not like it?”
“No,” Ranboo replies, voice embarrassingly choked up. “I- I really love it. Thank you.” He sniffles, and then laughs at himself, because wow that’s pathetic. “I- Sorry, haha, I- it’s really great. Sorry.”
“It’s okay, dude.” Tubbo sounds significantly more relieved, but also pretty concerned, which is expectable considering his friend all but burst into tears over a bad paper crane he made him. Tubbo very awkwardly reaches out to pat Ranboo’s shoulder, saying a stilted, “There, there,” which makes Ranboo laugh again.
He wipes at his eyes and sets the crane on his desk, which immediately falls over. He smiles at it regardless. “Sorry about that. I- yeah. Thanks.”
“It’s fine! I can’t judge you, because, like. I cry at weird stuff, too.” Tubbo reassures. “Like, one time I watched a video of someone fishing and I sobbed for like two hours afterward, and Wilbur tried to reassure me but he made it worse because he’s fished a lot before, so then Tommy told him to shut the fuck up but Tommy’s really bad at comforting, so I had to call Jack Manifold of all people to listen to me, and he had no idea what to do, and, um, yeah.”
Ranboo blinks, slowly processing that information. “Oh.” He pauses again. “How old were you?”
“Oh, this was recent,” Tubbo says, almost proudly. “This was like three months ago.”
“I see.”
Tubbo nods, and then gives Ranboo a grin, “So honestly, you crying at a paper crane makes a whole lot of sense, boss man.”
Ranboo returns the gesture, laughing a little and nodding. “Yeah, you’re right. Thanks.”
“No problem.” Tubbo turns to face the front of the classroom again, pulling one of his knees up to squish between his chest and his desk. “I can’t do any cool, like, origami stuff,” Tubbo thinks aloud, “but I bet I can teach you some cool outdoorsy things. Trade deal. Do you know how to climb a fence?”
“Considering I’m, uh, 6’6, I don’t think I’ll encounter any fences where that’d be an issue.” Even if it was, Ranboo thinks he can just sort of… climb it? Is it a very hard thing to do? He wouldn’t know, but he imagines it’s not that difficult.
“Fuck, you’re right.” He sighs. “Uh. Start a fire?”
Ranboo blinks. “Is that a question or just, uh, a general statement?”
“Nevermind, that’s a bad idea,” Tubbo says under his breath. “Last time I did that with Tommy, Phil got right pissed. Okay, let’s see, let’s see, uh. Do you know how to skip rocks?”
Ranboo tilts his head. “No, actually.”
“Sick!” Tubbo says a little too loudly, earning a look from one of their classmates. He just grins at them, which is enough to make them return to the book they're reading, and he looks at Ranboo again. “We’re doing that soon, yeah?”
“Along with stargazing,” Ranboo notes. He remembers that Tubbo wanted to do that.
“Yes, yes, yes.” Tubbo beams. “I’m so excited.”
Seeing Tubbo so excited to spend time with Ranboo of all people makes his chest feel warm and a little strange, but not in a bad way. He thinks his face has heated up a little, too, which hasn’t happened in a long time.
Before, though, it happened a lot more with being embarrassed. This, though, it’s… different.
He’s not sure what it is.
He’ll think more about it later. For now, he’ll just be content with the fact that it’s a really, really nice feeling, and he wouldn’t complain if Tubbo ended up making him feel that way more often.
Class starts, and for the most part, it’s fairly standard-- a small lecture, if it could be considered that, and then some busy work to do, and then time to work on revising their essays if needed afterward. Ranboo definitely needs that, since he didn’t get as much of it done over the weekend as he would have liked, and the busywork doesn’t seem too bad, so he mostly speeds through it to work on the essay.
As he’s typing it up and trying to brainstorm ways to conclude the argument, he notices that he feels hungry. It’s the first class in the day, and Ranboo had an apple this morning, which is typical enough for him, so he’s not sure why he’s-
Ranboo lets out a sudden, frustrated sigh. Oh, for God’s sake.
Most of the people in the classroom are distracted, but Tubbo spares him a look from where he sits beside him, raising his eyebrow and asking, “You okay, boss man?” Judging by the blank document on his screen, the other has not worked on the essay, like, at all.
Ranboo shouldn’t distract him.
“Yeah,” he replies, feeling a little like tearing his hair out. “Just remembered I had to do something that I keep forgetting.”
It’s not like writing down GO TO THE GROCERY STORE again is going to fix it. Sometimes repetition does, but it’s in there so many times that Ranboo doesn’t think another iteration is worth it. He’s starting to consider that this isn’t even a memory issue, that the issues he has are mixing with his social anxiety and past experiences in stores to the point that he just keeps repressing it.
It’s so incredibly stupid. It’s possibly the stupidest thing that Ranboo has forgotten, and Ranboo forgot his own name once for an entire day.
(To be fair, he does have a really weird name. He likes it, because it’s so strange that it can’t be anything but ambiguous, and for whatever reason he prefers that to something more… not that, he guesses. Most likely because of his whole mortifying ordeal of being known issues. If there’s any more to that, he tries not to think about it.
Getting it mispronounced is always a little awkward, though.)
Tubbo lets out an ah of understanding. “Write it in the planner and do it after school?” he suggests.
“I’ll do that,” Ranboo lies.
Hopefully not entirely a lie. If he doesn’t go food shopping soon, it’s going to start being depressing. Which it already is, but less because it’s inherently depressing and more because Ranboo’s usually depressed.
“In the meantime,” Tubbo leans over and gives the toppled paper crane a one-digit pat on the head, and Ranboo follows suit soon after, “just make sure to give the crane love for good luck, and you’ll be fine!”
“Oh, it’s a good luck crane?” Ranboo asks.
“Yup! And his name is…” Tubbo gives the crane a long, hard look. Ranboo pats it again in the meantime, and a few seconds later, Tubbo gives a solemn nod before stating, “Borris.”
Ranboo laughs, and watching Tubbo try to keep a straight face makes him laugh more. “That’s- that’s a terrible name for a paper crane!”
“Do you not love Borris, Ranboo?” Tubbo leans forward, trying so very hard to stay in character. The effort is palpable and painfully noticeable. “Borris feels invalidated.”
“I’m sorry, Borris.” Ranboo scoops Borris into his hands and holds it gently. “I didn’t mean it.”
“He forgives you,” Tubbo informs him. “I should probably get back to essay writing, but, good luck on the thing you forgot!”
How had Ranboo already forgotten about that again? He was going to hold back on plastering the words on his arm with a pen, but he’s starting to think risking the public embarrassment is worth it for remembering it long enough to actually go to the store.
Niki would kill him if she was here. She’s busy with the bakery work and spending time with Puffy and everything, of course, but as soon as she comes back she’s going to lose her mind with worry. She’s like that; fierce with her worry, ever since she’s started trying to vocalize it before it festers up inside of her.
There’s a lot that goes unsaid between the two of them, though, so Ranboo wouldn’t be surprised if there was any emotion laying dormant in her right now, something that he’ll accidentally evoke one day. And vise-versa, Ranboo supposes. Neither of them are the best with vulnerability.
It’s been a really, really long time since Ranboo and her have talked about something other than business. Well, no, correction: they talk about Niki’s life, sometimes, and Ranboo’s mentioned school a few times. It’s mostly that Ranboo wants to avoid her worrying about him at all possible costs, and it usually takes avoiding a personal conversation in the first place to get Niki not to press. She’s clever, but she’s persistent and she cares.
The last thing Ranboo wants is her stressing over getting him a nutritionist. That would just be a strange employee or roommate dynamic.
Ranboo places Borris the Paper Crane back on his desk before returning to his essay. He’ll remember the groceries tonight. He literally has to at this point.
No matter what, he’s going today.
Even if it kills him.
--
Death would be better than this, actually.
Ranboo looks at the long and fully-stocked refrigerated aisle of the grocery store and tightens his grip on the shopping cart. It’s him and this bulky conglomerate of plastic against the world, otherwise known as the vast collection of different kinds of milk. Scientists should look into the possible correlation between social anxiety bordering on agoraphobia and lactose intolerance, because Ranboo feels positively sick looking at the organic milk cartons.
Being able to remember his lack of groceries when he got home from school was a miracle, especially considering he had gotten sidetracked once he got there writing about the conversation he had with Tubbo throughout the day and giggling to himself over the argument he witnessed between him and Tommy at lunch. The second he remembered, he grabbed his keys and left his house, taking his wallet, list, and a light jacket with him.
It’s only now, when he finally starts looking for the tens of things he needs, that he realizes that his earlier hypothesis was correct. Anxiety definitely played a role in this whole shopping excursion problem.
He’ll add it to the list of probable causes for his memory loss. It’s not exactly like he has another person to cross-reference this with, anyway. For all he knows, he’s not even part of this world and the memory loss is a consequence of that; he has no doctorate and common sense only half the time.
Almost gritting his teeth, his arm makes a sharp movement to grab a random milk carton. It’s the cheapest one, and nothing looks wrong with it, and he’s sure that Niki wouldn’t mind if he didn’t get great milk, because this isn’t bakery groceries (he doesn’t have to handle those, and usually, neither does she) and she’s not coming back for… some time.
He thinks. It always depends.
He’s not sure how he should feel about it.
On one hand, it’s not like he has much room to complain. He’s almost an adult, and his rent usually gets partially covered by Niki if he can’t afford it, and, well. From what Ranboo can remember-- which is nothing, really, absolutely nothing-- he must have just… appeared. On her doorstep. Or something along those lines.
And Niki took him in.
Niki gave him somewhere to stay. Gave him a job. Gave him a tether. It’s easy to imagine himself wandering aimlessly, lost in the blurs of forgetfulness and never having an anchor to attach himself to. Nothing to remember and nothing to find, wholly disattached and forgetting over and over until he inevitably dies. It’s a terrifying thought, and it’s not far off what he’s doing now.
The difference is, he has a reset point. Somewhere to go back to, because of her.
It’s selfish, then, to expect anything more.
It isn’t that Ranboo wants to be taken care of. It isn’t even that Ranboo wants a family, or a sibling, or anything. Those feelings, those sensations-- they’re lost to him. He has no concept of what that would be like, no reference point or anything, so there’s nothing to mourn. Nothing to long for. He’s terribly susceptible to mourning the nothingness, anyway.
But he doesn’t want that. He doesn’t even need it. He’s not sure what he wants from Niki-- practically speaking, he has everything. A job, a house, and a friend, almost sister , even.
And Niki’s only 21. Niki’s 21, and she’s been through a lot, too-- Ranboo doesn’t know, doesn’t remember, but he understands nonetheless-- and. And, there’s nothing he can ask her for that he doesn’t already have. It’s senseless longings. It’s the senseless feeling of abandonment when he does all he can to reject her once she’s around.
Silently, he pushes his cart to another aisle. He needs eggs, and bread, and so many of the most basic things. The things that Niki would kill him for if she knew that he didn’t have any of them. Things that became unimportant to him, between the spaces of talking to Tubbo and meeting with Dream and learning from Techno and every other possible thing. Even petting Springerle took precedence over shopping.
It’s ridiculous. His survival instincts are severely off. If he had any memory, he would question why his lack of self preservation didn’t kill him off when he was a kid, but he guesses there’s nothing to clue him in on that. It’s worth assuming it’s just dumb luck.
In any case, Ranboo keeps pushing his shopping cart, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible, until he’s spent over an hour in there just trying to clear his shopping list, and is still missing several things out of stock. Check out is a complete nightmare, even with the overly polite cashier, and by the time he’s in his car he feels on the brink of tears.
But, he drives home. He plays a happier playlist and he drives home, trying to rejoice the fact that he finally did it, after weeks of procrastinating it. He has food now. He doesn’t have to worry about what Tubbo and Tommy will think about his packed lunch, or what Niki is going to say once she gets back, or how he’s going to be able to focus in classes. He’s safe. He’s okay.
For all the triumph he feels, it’s not enough to conjure away the dissatisfaction and guilt that wears at him.
--
At 1:00 AM, Ranboo checks his phone, and he sees that it’s exactly 1:00 AM.
He… supposes that would make sense.
Ranboo rolls over, facing up at the ceiling, and places one arm over his chest. The other lies tiredly beside him, holding his dying phone as it fills his room with music. He shifts in unease, kicking the covers off of him further as if that will help. Autumn has reached the colder tail-end of September, but with long pajama pants and a baggy short sleeved shirt, he figures it to be fine.
He wants to curl up and hide away. This strange urge to tear at his skin and rip off all his clothes and just… exist, in his bed, where it’s warm and nobody wants to see him or care for him or anything. Where he doesn’t have to cry over making sandwiches, or procrastinate his annual physical doctor’s appointment again, or try to be a good friend with no knowledge on the subject. Just… rest, and sleep, and nothing else.
Not his own body, even. Just… his mind, endlessly here. Trapped in the almost-empty bedroom of a teenager who should not be here, not in a self-deprecatory sense, but in the most literal terms available.
His body makes him feel caged and wrong, almost, and he’s never certain what to do about it on nights like these.
He swallows back his anxiety, covers his head with the covers, and counts to a minute before taking them off. He’s no calmer, but his eyes do a weird thing to refocus on the lighting of his room, which is a little cool, at least, albeit unhelpful.
Ranboo glances at his phone again. He should change the music, maybe. Or google hey I feel wrong in my body again and I don’t think it has to do with any pre-existing health condition so I’m grasping at straws for an answer here. Or not google that, and just… go on the internet otherwise. Read randomized Wikipedia articles and pray it isn’t various reiterations of sports teams. Maybe even text someone.
Text someone.
… Ranboo doesn’t think Tubbo is up right now. If he is, Ranboo still wouldn’t want to disturb him with a message and keep him up longer.
But Tubbo makes him feel better.
He rolls over again, tugging his blankets to his chest, and shutting his eyes tightly. Let me sleep, he pleads in his head, pretending that the shape of his body isn’t the center of his distress right now. That it will all settle in the morning, and that this won’t happen again.
The idealistic reality he can never have, where he never decays and the sun is still out. He can be happy there, and never take another photograph again. He crosses his fingers, turns off his phone, and prays that it all becomes real tomorrow.
Tomorrow will be a Tuesday. He would like to be productive on Tuesday and ensure he gets all his work done, but he’s not certain he will be able to sleep. Unsure what part of his body he can lay seize to and force to go to bed, even when his brain is racing about the possibility of a stranger outside his door, or the equally likely possibility that he will see Tubbo again tomorrow and have a good day with him that feels like dying. His time spent with Tubbo feels like a death sentence, though he’s grateful for the other, even giving him that last chance.
He just wishes he understood anything. Everything , really, but especially the way Tubbo makes him feel. How someone can make him so happy so quickly when he’s never felt that way before about anything, about anyone. Tubbo makes him a different person, and that terrifies him, because Ranboo hardly recognizes himself as it is.
He doesn’t want to imagine a world where Tubbo stays and then Tubbo goes, and Ranboo is fundamentally changed and unrecognizable, so dependent on the briefest flickers of happiness he had gotten that he can’t live without it. A world where he makes a mistake, and Tubbo is gone forever, and Ranboo is alone again.
He can’t bear to be by himself again.
The song switches to something quieter, and he shuts his eyes again and flips the other direction. He does not want to have nightmares, but he knows that he’ll be tossing and turning either way, and he may as well have something imaginative.
(And when he finally sleeps, he returns back into his car. Driving down the same highway, with the same GPS, with a different location-- Tubbo’s house. Making his way there.
In his dream, he recalls the exact moment he considers crashing, and from there, the thought is distorted.
There’s no certainty that it isn’t another memory.)